


Queen Anne's Lace

by elcor_thespian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abandonment, Complicated Relationships, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Relationship(s), running away from problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elcor_thespian/pseuds/elcor_thespian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have been rocky with Varric and Hawke since Leandra's death and Varric would like to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blame the Gardener

One drink became two, and then three as the slight rattle of ice at the bottom of the glass marked how much time had passed since anyone had last spoken to him.  Normally Varric would have taken the nobles’ lack of interest as a challenge.  He would have ingratiated himself in to as many conversations as he could, telling jokes and spinning stories, all while eagerly absorbing as much gossip as the court’s ladies felt safe to spill to the seemingly harmless dwarf. He would have left the party behind with his name on everyone’s lips, and a mind full of enough secrets to throw Hightown in to upheaval for weeks.

However tonight the nobles’ avoidance suited him perfectly, as he was not in a mood to play their game, or indeed speak to anyone.  He had only attended the event out of a sense of duty, and as he drained the last drop of whiskey from its crystal glass, he decided that duty had been more or less fulfilled.  He placed the empty rocks glass on the table next to him, and adjusted his coat. He crossed the ballroom, careful to avoid eye contact with Sebastian, who had attempted to drag him in to social graces earlier in the evening. 

Choir-Boy was decidedly in his element, however much he tried to pretend he had left royal life behind him.  He was surrounded by members of the Kirkwall gentry and various visiting dignitaries, and was clearly enjoying the attention: currently by politely declining an offer to dance from the daughter of a Fereldan arlessa.  True to his chastity vows, at the very least, Sebastian had managed to deflect most of his propositions tonight, but had conceded to dance with Hawke no less than three times.

 _Shit_ , Varric thought, turning on his heel to face the room again, having almost reached the exit and the blessed release of this night. _Hawke._

He couldn’t in good conscious leave without at least saying goodbye.  This shindig was in her honor after all, and even if she had been strangely distant since returning from Orlais, ( _And hadn’t acknowledged him the whole night_ , he reminded himself grimly) he certainly wasn’t going to help matters by disappearing on her. Reluctantly he scanned the room for his best friend.

Hawke had appeared earlier that night at the top of the grand staircase, fashionably late to ensure that the ballroom was full of onlookers ready to admire her, and decked in a glittering deep blue gown adorned with sapphires, diamonds, and pure gold. Varric would have put money on the dramatic entrance being Rivaini’s idea, as Hawke was exceptionally shy around strangers and most likely did not want to attend the party at all, let alone be the main event.  But Isabela hadn’t yet returned from her own dramatic departure, a particular tantrum spurred by the way Hawke had handled finding out about the nature of her friend’s crimes against the Qunari, and had ended in her disappearing in the middle of a crisis on to what Varric had to assume was a comically large boat. So perhaps Hawke’s performance was more inspired by her absent mentor, and he couldn’t help but silently curse Rivaini’s childish antics as he noted the unease behind Hawke’s gracious smile as the court applauded her.  Hawke clearly needed a friend, and she wasn’t talking to him.  In fact she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone at the moment. 

Hawke had been easy to spot all night; sometimes by her necklace catching the light of the chandeliers and sparkling against her tanned and exposed shoulders, and sometimes by a swath of navy fabric that swirled past as Sebastian twirled her on the floor. But more often than not, Varric could identify his best friend the same way in this opulent ballroom as he did in The Hanged Man on a crowded Saturday night, or in her estate in the dead of night as he put his hand on the front door knob after considering that she might be long asleep.  You could always find Hawke by her most attractive quality: her laugh.  No matter what dreaded reach of the word he found himself in because of that girl (the Deep Roads sprung chiefly to mind) he would hear her bright, honeyed laugh cut through any other noise, and he would know that he was exactly where he should be.

But the star of the night was nowhere to be seen as he walked through the crowd.  He considered doubling back to Sebastian, but he doubted the Prince would have taken any notice of his dance partner’s departure with the gaggle of admires closing him off from the rest of the guests. Likewise, it was best not to interrupt Aveline and Donnic; fiancées as close to their wedding day as his two compatriots rarely had eyes for anyone but each other. He was about to give up under the assumption that Hawke had left the hall for better company when he ran in to Fenris, who was nearly supporting an adorably intoxicated Merrill with her arm around his shoulder.

“Ah, Varric, there you are,” the elf said tonelessly, shifting his giggling load slightly, “I wanted you to know that I am taking Merrill home.”

“It’s alright,” Merrill assured Varric, while somehow losing her footing even though she was standing still, “Except for this dress hasn’t got any pockets, so I had to leave my twine at home.  Why would they forget the pockets?”  She laughed again to herself, and Varric grinned.

“Humans are strange like that, Daisy,” Varric said, patting her hand,  “They must not have very much to carry.”  Merrill nodded as if she accepted Varric’s off handed remark as gospel.  She hiccupped, and Varric raised an eyebrow in Fenris’ direction.

“Are you sure you’ve got her, Broody?  I was just about to leave myself and it wouldn’t-“

“Please let me leave here,” Fenris interrupted, “if another lord asks me to refill his glass I may do something we will all come to regret.”

In hindsight, Varric was astonished that he had lasted as long as he had, although he knew the elf to be on his best behavior both because of his own personal loyalty to Hawke, and because he was under the direct threat of Anders, who could not attend himself (at least not without risking imprisonment).  The two of them may bicker like hens, but neither of them had any desire to ruin Hawke’s night.

“Fair enough. Say, have you seen the Lady of the Evening anywhere?  I wanted to deliver my congratulations in person.”  Varric tried to keep his tone as even as possible, but was beginning to listen to the sinking sensation in his gut more than the rational voice in his head.

Fenris frowned and pushed himself up slightly on his toes to scan the room.  A fair tactic, as Hawke’s height normally meant her golden hair stood out above the heads of those surrounding her.  Unable to spot her he lowered himself back down and shrugged.  However, beside him Merrill, seemingly only now processing Varric’s question, hiccupped again and tugged at Fenris’ jacket.

“She said she was going upstairs to fix her hair…I told her that her hair was lovely and didn’t need fixing.”

Varric thanked her, and Fenris requested that should Varric find her he convey their goodnights as well. He then brought his arm around Merrill’s waist and led her out of the palace, despite her mumbled protests that she was perfectly capable of walking herself.

* * *

 

Varric made his way to the staircase and climbed, resigned to that if he didn’t find his friend within ten minutes he could honestly say he had made an effort, and maybe use his apologies as a conversation starter the next time he saw her. He didn’t know when he had started needing to plan out how to talk to Hawke, but he suspected it was before Hawke’s mother had died.  Ever since that night Varric had found his previous partner in crime unusually distant, sometimes emotionally but more often than not physically. Or perhaps he had simply become more sensitive to the fact that she wasn’t always nearby.

At the top of the stairs he looked down the hall to find one heavy oak door that had been left slightly ajar. _As good a place to start as any_ , he thought, and strode towards it. Pushing it open without difficulty, the door revealed an expansive bedroom bookended by wide-open screen doors that led to a grey stone balcony adorned by a garden of small white blossoms that draped over the railing.  And there, with her back to him, stood Hawke, looking out at the Kirkwall skyline.

She hadn’t noticed him enter the room behind her, and for a brief moment he considered backing out the way he came.  She had obviously come up here to be alone and he didn’t want to bother her.  He shook his head: _Since when had he been so concerned about bothering Hawke?_ He sighed, and walked forward, cautiously, trying to find the words to break the ice that had settled between them.

“I thought I’d find you up here.” He said, stepping out on to the balcony.  He paused for a brief second for Hawke to turn around. When she didn’t, he moved closer, to a stone bench that stood between them.  “Mind you, I think you have the right idea.  Lovely party and all, but too much time around nobles and I start to break out in to a rash.”  He waited for a response, but Hawke stood motionless, her hands seemingly occupied with something in front of her.  He moved closer still, until he was right beside her.

“Fenris sends his congratulations on the new title.  Champion of Kirkwall…that’s really…something.  Don’t know what exactly, but it sounds impressive. Should at least get you a few free drinks.  Especially if I’m buying.”

Her shoulders shook slightly, and he looked up to see a sad grin on her face.  Not a laugh, per se, but it was a start. He sighed, and looked out over the balcony.  Well as best he could.

“You know Hawke, I bet this a spectacular view, but I’m having a bit of a hard time seeing past these flowers.  As usual, no one has taken in to account that not everyone visiting the Vicount’s Estate is a giant.  Some of us are normal sized.”

This did actually earn a small chuckle, and Hawke looked at Varric for a quick moment before looking away to her hands, which were closed around something that Varric could not see. He waited to see if she would say anything, and when she didn’t he sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and decided that he had best leave her to whatever thoughts he had interrupted.

“Anyway, Hawke, I’m heading out for the night.  More than enough excitement…if you need anything…” He started to offer, and then thought better of it.  What could he say? Lately he couldn’t tell what Hawke wanted, or needed, or what he had done wrong.  All he knew is that she had come back from Orlais quieter and sadder than he had ever seen her.  He didn’t know how to help, but it also seemed as if Hawke had made it clear that she didn’t want his help.  It was frustrating, but it couldn’t be helped.  He turned and walked away with out another word. He had almost made it to the balcony doors when Hawke finally spoke.

“They’re called Queen Anne’s Lace,” she said suddenly, without turning to face him.  He stopped and stared at her, trying to decide how to respond to that.

“The flowers,” she started again, finally turning to look at her friend, revealing one of the same white flowers in her grasp.  “They’re called Queen Anne’s Lace.  Either named for Andraste or Queen Anora, depending who you ask.”  She smiled at him, and when he didn’t respond she continued.  “I’m actually surprised to see them here.  They’re native to Fereldan… The central Fereldan countryside in particular.”

 _Oh_ , Varric thought, _shit._

He crossed back to the bench and sat, making it clear he wanted to stay, but also made no attempt to interrupt.  Hawke sat next to him, still focused on the blossom in her hand.

“There was this hill, just outside of Lothering.  It was absolutely covered in Queen Anne’s Lace.  From a distance, when they were in bloom, it looked just like snow. The twins and I…” she trailed off a bit, the story getting stuck in her throat.  Without hesitating, Varric took her free and in his. She entwined their fingers and swallowed, letting a tear escape and trail down her cheek.  Varric had an almost irrepressible urge to wipe it away, but he let it fall.  If Hawke wasn’t talking to him, and Isabella was away, when was the last time someone had been with her when she cried?

“The twins and I would go up there when we needed to get away.  When Mother would scold Carver for getting in to a fight, or Bethany was getting teased by some of the other children…usually those two things happened in the same day.”  She smiled, a little wider this time, and Varric felt comfortable enough to let out a small laugh.  “We would go up to this hill…sometimes we would talk, and sometimes we would play, or I would read a them a book.  The day Father died we just lay there in the grass for hours…until the sun set. It always seemed like nothing bad could reach us there.  Like it was our own little world.”

“I used to braid Queen Anne’s Lace in to Bethany’s hair.  My hair was always too short, but Bethany, oh,” she laughed and look at Varric, pushing away fresh tears from her sea blue eyes, “she had this lovely, long, thick, black hair.  And when I was done she would twirl around, and she looked just like a princess.”

“And when we went home, Mother would take them all out, and brush out the braid, and pretend to be mad at us for getting dirty.  But she always kept a few of the blossoms in a dish of water at the kitchen window. Just for a few days.   It seemed she was grateful...that I was so good at cheering them up.  At keeping them happy.  That I was so good… at being a big …”

Hawke choked out a sob on the last word and buried her face in her hands, leaving the flower forgotten on the bench next to her.  Varric quickly drew her in to a hug, and she pressed her face in to his shoulder. They stayed there for a few minutes, the only sound being Hawke’s labored breathing and soft sniffles. Finally, she drew back on a deep inhale and regained her composure.

“The last time we went there was the day Carver returned from Ostagar.  He hadn’t told Mother exactly what happened; he didn’t want to scare her.  I’m not even sure he told us everything…but he told us what he could.  About the fire, and the blood, and…we talked about what was coming. About what a Blight would mean for us, and everything we were afraid of.  We made plans, and held each other’s hands, and we said we loved each other and promised each other we could get through this together. And we walked down that hill, and two days later Bethany was dead.”

 

“I saw Carver tonight.”

Varric tightened his grip on Hawke’s hand.  The last time Hawke had seen her brother had been nearly two months ago when her mother had died.  Hawke had chosen to brave the Gallows to deliver the news in person, despite the fact that she had barely spoken to her brother beyond short, curt letters since he joined the Templars.  From what he gathered the infrequency of their visits had been Junior’s choice. Something about becoming his own person or stepping out of his sister’s shadow or other such bullshit. Needless to say Carver had not taken the news well, and had Hawke thrown out, after screaming at her for failing to stop Leandra’s murder.  Hawke had forgiven him.  Varric had not.

“When I came down the staircase, he was one of the first people I saw.  I was so relieved, and so happy to see him, I walked straight up to him.  I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that it was good to see him, that it meant everything to me that he came.” She took a steadying breath to try to slow down the words that were tumbling out of her mouth.  She was always doing this, Varric realized, monitoring her emotions so that things stayed pleasant.  He wished she didn’t feel as if she needed to guard herself.

“Varric…he looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘I’m here because I am expected to be.  I’m going to smile, shake some hands, and once I have been seen supporting the Champion of Kirkwall, I will go.’”

“He said what?!” Varric growled, finally interrupting Hawke’s story.

“I just-“ she brought her palm to her cheek and wiped away a new tear with her finger tips, “I don’t understand how everything could have gone so wrong.  How did we get so broken that he could just…hate me. I was in that ballroom and all of these strangers kept coming up to me and thanking me for my service, and telling me how much they admired me, how much they wished they could get to know me better…meanwhile everyone who actually does know me either hates me or ends up dead.”

“Ok, that’s bullshit and you know it.  Your friends and family are so much better off for having you in their lives that it borders on ridiculous.  Yes, you have had a really, really shit strain of luck but that is not your fault.” He stared in to her eyes, brow furrowed in the hopes that she would understand the severity of his words. “It is not your fault, and you didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But Carver-“

“Will get over it.” Varric said, finally giving in to the urge to wipe away one of Hawke’s tears, “Even if Bianca and I have to beat it out of him.”  Finally, this earned an actual laugh from Hawke. Bright and clear, and beautiful, even through the tears.

“There’s my girl,” he said, his hand lingering on her cheek a half second too long before awkwardly chuckling and bringing both hands to his lap.  He then tried to stop himself from asking the question that had been burning a hole in his head for the past month.  However, he had never claimed to be a man of restraint, that title went to Choir-Boy, and he gave in to curiosity.

“You know,” he started, looking down at his own hands to avoid Hawke’s gaze, “this little celebration was supposed to happen right after you healed up.  Had the invitations in the mail and everything. But they had to postpone it when you disappeared to go wyvern hunting.  It was quite the scandal; feathers were ruffled, and I am not just talking about Blondie.”  Again, Hawke let out a genuine giggle.  Varric laughed uneasily, unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to know.

“So while I have you here…why exactly did you run away to Orlais?”  He almost choked on his own heart as it beat so heavily in his throat.

Hawke looked off at the cityscape in front of them, taking another precious moment to breathe. “It was just all…too much. First with Mother, and then Carver, and then Isabella…and now apparently the entire city needs me…I just couldn’t handle it.  I needed a break.” She smiled at him softly, expecting him to accept her answer.  He did not.

“I didn’t ask why you went. I asked why you ran away.” Hawke looked confused, and Varric felt every bit of anger he had locked away start to bubble up as he struggled to put in to words what Hawke had put him through.  If only he had her gift for tact.

“All it took was one flashy elf to dangle something shiny in front of you, and the next morning we all find out you disappeared.  If it wasn’t for Aveline telling Donnic that this was some kind of deranged girls night out, we’d have organized a search party.  We were worried.  Fenris found new bottles to break.”

“Varric, you were there when we met Tallis, you knew I had said I would help her!”  Hawke was getting defensive, and Varric wasn’t having it.

“Yes, you said you’d help her. And I said I would help you.”  
            Hawke waved him off, “You hate to travel.”

 

“But I like being with you.”

 

Hawke stared at Varric, mouth slightly agape as his outburst settled in the air.  Varric took a page out of Hawke’s book and took a deep breath to find the right words.

“We didn’t know anything about this girl, or what she wanted, or who she was working for, and you still leapt at the chance to leave Kirkwall.  I asked you to give me a few days to check up on her, and you apparently couldn’t wait that long.  All we knew about her was that she was a highly trained assassin, and you ran off to a foreign country with her, and dragged two of your best friends along. What did you need to get away from so badly that you would put Aveline, and Merrill, and most importantly, yourself, in danger like that?”

Hawke was stunned, “Varric, I-“

“Were you trying to get away from me?”

 

            There it was.  There was the question that Varric had wanted to ask for two months.  Since the night Hawke came to him from the Gallows, sobbing that her brother didn’t love her any more.  Ever since that night Hawke had been sullen, she had been quiet, and she had clearly, clearly, been avoiding him. He needed to know that it wasn’t in his head.  And he needed to know that he hadn’t ruined his friendship with the most important person in his life.  
             Hawke looked away and sighed.  The silence that followed could not have been more than a minute but it seemed to stretch on forever as Varric felt his dread claw away at him from the inside out.  _Yes, yes, you ruined it, yes_.  The blood thudded in his head as he waited for her to say something, anything. 

When he thought he couldn’t withstand another moment, he blurted out an apology. “I’m so-“

“I had a lot of things to think about.”  Hawke finally said, interrupting Varric.  He shut his mouth, pretended he wasn’t going to say anything, and let her continue.

“So I went to Orlais so I could do that without being distracted.  And I took Merrill and I took Aveline because I knew they wouldn’t ask questions, and I knew they wouldn’t make things more complicated than they were and, yes, because I knew they could take care of themselves.” 

She turned to look at him, and Varric felt himself begin to sweat under her gaze; he couldn’t shake the notion that he was being made to answer for something, that he was being interrogated.  She crinkled her brow and stared in to his face, like she was trying to read his mind. Normally she could.

“So,” Varric said, coughing in to his fist, “did you?”

“Did I what?” She asked, still studying his face.

“Think about…things. Shit, I don’t know. Did you figure out what you needed to?”

Hawke took a moment and then gave a slight smile.  “What do you want me to say?”

Hawke smiled wider and brought her hand up to tuck some of Varric’s hair behind his ear, letting her fingertips trail along his neck as she ran her thumb along his jawline. Varric shuddered before he knew enough to stop it.

“Yeah, I think so.”

She threaded her fingers up Varric’s neck and through his hair, until his head rested in her right hand.  He tried to open his mouth, to say something, to tell her something.  He was usually so much better at this.

And then she was on him. Her smooth lips crashed in to his in stunned amazement.  He didn’t realize what was happening at first, and he almost pulled away from her, just to figure it out.  But within seconds he learned that you don’t just stop kissing Hawke. Men have been executed for lesser crimes against humanity.

Her lips seemed impossibly cold for the temperate Cloudreach night, and Varric wondered if it were possible to dedicate the rest of his life to warming them up.  He pressed his tongue against her teeth and she responded instinctively, parting her mouth with a groan and pulling her body closer to him so that her breasts heaved against his chest.  Varric felt his muscles constrict against the desire to throw himself against her, to show her how long he had waited for this, how much he cared for her.  But instead he carefully placed his hand on her waist, just enough to assure her that he was there, that he wanted to be there.  Andraste’s ass, there was nowhere else he could ever want to be.

“Serrah Hawke?” A voice came from just outside the bedroom door, and Hawke pushed away from Varric, their lips parting with a disheartening smack.  She was still close enough that he could feel her hot breath on his face, even though she was having trouble looking at him.  He wished the servant would go away.  He wanted to talk to her, wanted to tell her-

But of course they didn’t.

“Begging your pardon Miss, but you are being asked after downstairs.”  The elf looked expectedly at Hawke, and was greeted by a gracious smile.  Hawke’s smile could relax anyone.

“Thank you, Elsali,” she said, with a charming façade that almost made Varric doubt that the past few minutes had take place, were it not for the pounding in his veins. “I’ll be out in just one moment.”

The elf curtsied, and left the room, although it was apparent that she had been ordered to wait and lead Hawke back to the ballroom personally.  Her allowed hiding time was up.

Hawke stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her dress.  She brought her fingertips to her eyes again, and a swirl of green healing mist took away their redness and swelling, and again Varric with struck with a pang of concern as he wondered how many times she had performed this spell before entering a room.  She was still determined to look anywhere other than at him, as she hurried towards the door where Elsali was waiting for her.  When she had almost reached it, however, she paused and turned, although she kept her gaze locked at her feet.

“You know, we can just pretend that never happened,” she said, sadly, “If you wanted to.”  And before Varric had a chance to respond she was gone, and he was left alone in the Kirkwall moonlight.

Varric was at a complete loss for words.  He looked down and saw the forgotten bloom of Queen Anne’s Lace sitting next to him. He gingerly picked it up, and twirled it by its stem.

_Is that what he wanted?_


	2. The Deafening Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! I'm so glad that people seemed to like Chapter 1. Thank you so much to everyone who read it, and especially to my friends that commented. You were what pushed me to finish this chapter, and I hope you like what I came up with :)

_“You know, we can just pretend that never happened.  If you wanted to.”_

Varric couldn’t have told you how he made it back to The Hanged Man that night.  By the time his mind quieted down enough to process his surroundings, he was already lying in bed, staring at the warped wooden ceiling.  How was it possible to have a brain buzzing with thoughts and not be able to think? He tried to slow them down, concentrate on one string, one problem to solve at a time.  If only that ever actually worked.

_“If you wanted to.”_

Slowly he became aware that he was still holding the flower, the Queen Anne’s Lace, that Hawke had left behind.  He didn’t remember deciding to keep it.  He twirled it slightly and grinned a little imagining a younger, more carefree Hawke braiding dozens of these in to her sister’s hair, and tucking few behind her own ear before chasing down an eight year old Carver threatening to make him pretty. He would have paid a lot of gold to see it in person.

_“We can just pretend that never happened.”_

Varric groaned and threw his arm over his eyes.  This was not a problem that was going to go away by ignoring it, and that was his least favorite kind of problem.  His mind was dedicated to replaying the night’s events over and over, with or without his permission, and he wasn’t going to get any sleep until he dealt with it. He hated dealing with things.

  _The way she smiled.  Genuine, but regretful.  Like she had resigned to do something she knew would end up hurting her._

He still smelled like her. She must have been using the same soap for years, because he could always catch her scent after being with her. Vanilla, but not sweet. Iris, but not overpowering. It was a headier smell, heavy and sad; it fell on your skin and sunk down in to your heart until the whole world was tinged with her.  That smell had followed him in the darkest moments of his life, and the happiest. Mostly the happiest.

  _“We can just forget.”_

Varric rolled over to his side, almost cradling the flower in his hands.  There were lots of things he wanted to forget.  He wanted to forget his cowardice, which had cost him lives unlived and chances untaken.  He wanted to forget his fear: feeling trapped and lost, in the endless stone. He wanted to forget betrayal: the look in his brother’s eyes before he shut the door, and later, before Varric shot him in the chest and watched him bleed.  Regrets, and violence, and words spoken in anger…yeah, there’s a lot Varric could forget.

But loving Hawke? Never in a thousand lifetimes.

 Because he did love her, didn’t he?  That was the whole point. That was why he had followed her for so many years, and why he had agreed to help her with every insane idea she threw his way.  It was why he folded her in to every plan, every scheme, and every aspect of his day. A walk wasn’t complete without Hawke carefully measuring her steps to make sure her long legs fell in time with his. Every joke, every story, was punctuated by a covert glance to see if she approved, and a satisfied smile when he always saw her head thrown back in peals of laughter.  And when she was sad, when someone had the audacity to hurt her, to take something from her, it was as if someone had personally cut in to his own heart.

 So yes, he loved her. And now he knew that she returned at least some of that affection.  And no, he didn’t want to forget.  For once he didn’t want his life to be easier, or smoother, or less complicated. He wanted the complication if it meant more of Hawke.

 Varric couldn’t have told you if he slept that night, because for once his daydreams and his reality coincided.  And when the light broke through his window and he could justify that it was an appropriate hour to call on his friend, he rolled out of bed and headed towards the Hawke Estate.

* * *

 

            It was hard to get used to the quiet.  Hawke had always been a private person, preferring solitary activities to a documented history of failed attempts to socialize. Prior to coming to Kirkwall, experience had taught her that it was far easier to avoid embarrassing yourself in front of people if you avoided speaking to them at all.  It was easier to keep to yourself, and it came with the added side benefit of not being hurt.  Surely the quiet was better than the risk.

            But she had never been given the chance to find out.  Her entire life had been characterized by noise. Her personality was entrenched in the sound of her father making jokes and her mother’s exasperated sighs, her sister’s humming and her brother’s grumbling.  Every memory she had was colored by the voices of her family: not just the voices, but also the screams, the laughter, the cries.  The snap of magic as it lit fire in the fireplace, and the jangle of Carver’s armor as he tried it on for the first time.  The thud of feet on floorboards as her siblings ran around their home in Lothering, and the thudding of her own heart as they all ran for their lives. There was the creaking of the ship, and Gamlen’s excuses, and the hard work and plans for a life that could afford them a chance to remember what it felt like to be boring.

            It was hard to get used to the quiet.

            When she had been in Orlais, there was just enough noise that life almost felt normal again.  Aveline had been reluctant to leave Kirkwall, but had relented when she saw how important it was to Hawke, as Hawke knew she always would.  She had expected Aveline to be critical of her homeland, but she seemed to actually enjoy putting imagery to the stories her father told, stories that she would share more freely there than ever before.  Merrill, too, always seemed to have something to say, jabbering on about every new flower, or animal, or piece of cheese she tried. 

 Not that Hawke minded. She delighted in watching Merrill discover new things.  It was easy for life to make you jaded, but Merrill helped you remember how much beauty was left to discover, and how much joy was left to be had. Tallis didn’t always get it, but she never discouraged her.  Tallis had a lust for life herself; it just revealed itself in other ways. She found harmony in her beliefs, both those that were personal and those provided by the Qun. To listen to Tallis talk was to be assured that everything was as it should be, as it always could have been. It was a comforting mindset for someone who could only see her life as a litany of mistakes.

But at night, when the stories were over, and Merrill’s bubbly voice long since dissolved in to quiet snores, Hawke was once again left with the quiet.  The silence was so loud sometimes; she had to drown it out herself with her own memories.  And one memory in particular kept replaying itself, like a mystery that needed solving.

* * *

 

_“Varric?”_

_She stood in front of the door to her best friend’s room, her forehead pressed against the wood grain.  She tried to knock, but she was shaking too badly and her body weighed too much. She wanted to fall, to disassociate, to collapse in to something solid.  Maybe that would stop it.  But instead she raised her voice slightly higher, still barely above a whisper._

_“Varric?”_

_Seconds later, the door creaked open, and revealed her friend, a little disheveled but still wearing his clothes from earlier that day._

_“Hawke?” he croaked, staring at her in shock.  Her face was pale and blotched with red, and it was obvious she had been crying for hours.  Her usually pristine hair was unceremoniously tossed in to a loose ponytail, which barely even tried to keep its hold. She was swaying slightly, but she hadn’t been drinking.  No…she was just so, so tired._

_“Hey,” she said, twitching the corner of her mouth in to an unconvincing smile. Varric let her in, and she slumped on to the floor at the foot of his bed, wrapping her arms around her leg and pressing her head in to her knee.  Her head hurt so much.  Varric stayed by the door, watching her, waiting to see if she would say anything.  She didn’t want to. She was so tired of talking._

_“Where were you?” He finally asked.  His voice cracked with concern, but he was trying not to show it. Don’t push her, Aveline had said, not for anything she’s not ready for yet._

_Hawke’s head pounded as she struggled to answer Varric’s question. When had she last seen him? Oh that’s right. At home.  Her friends had taken her home and stayed up with her while she cried.  She hated crying in front of people.  She was better than that.  She claimed that she wanted to go to bed.  She climbed out a window._

_Varric tried again, moving a little closer, “When we realized that you left we all split up and tried to find you.  Different houses, the Clinic.  Rivaini went to the Blooming Rose, which Aveline said was the stupidest thing she had ever heard, but Isabela insisted that everyone heals in different ways.”_

_Hawke chuckled darkly.  Isabela would say that._

_Varric slid down next to Hawke.  She rolled over and laid the side of her face on his shoulder, letting it take the full weight.  For the first time in hours her head seemed to ache just a little bit less.  She closed her eyes and Varric snaked an arm around her waist.  It was not the first time they had sat like this, just enjoying each other’s company after an exceptionally hard day.  Sitting down, the height difference between them was less noticeable, and they fit together better. It was comfortable._

_“Where did you look?” she asked, listening to his breathing as the only constant in her life right now.  In and out.  Something she could rely on. When she closed her eyes it almost sounded like-_

_“The docks,” Varric answered, resting his head against hers. “If you want to find a sad Hawke, you go to the water.  I figured you were too tired to have made it to the Wounded Coast.  But I sent Fenris anyway.  He’s faster.”_

_Hawke smiled, only because she was sure Varric couldn’t see her face. The funny thing was that he was right.  She had gone to the docks first, and must have left right before he got there.  She had never lived near the sea before Kirkwall, and she found the sound and the smell of the ocean calming.  When she needed to escape, it was easy to get lost in the hustle and bustle of the dockworkers, and in the crash of the waves. Varric knew exactly where to look when life knocked her down again.  Maybe some day she would tell him that.  Maybe some day she would tell him a lot of things._

_“When you weren’t there…I don’t know, I walked around Lowtown for a few hours. Knocked on the front door of everyone I thought might have ever heard of you.  Tracked down Athenril to see if you had tried to put a hit out on anyone.  I even talked to Gamlen for a whole thirty minutes.  And one day, when you are feeling much better, you are going to owe me for that.”_

_Hawke chuckled, and pressed her face harder in to Varric’s shoulder. She was so tired._

_“I only just got back here.  Figured it would be easier to find you if I stayed in one place. I must have fallen asleep…Bodahn said he would send word if you went home.”_

_“I haven’t been home.”  Hawke mumbled, scooting as close to Varric as she could.  He was so warm.  Maybe she should have grabbed a coat before sneaking out the window._

_“Ok.” Varric nodded and waited for Hawke to offer some sort of explanation.  She didn’t want to talk.  She wanted to sit here, in the quiet, with Varric, and sleep. Possibly forever. She hadn’t decided yet. Varric always had to make things complicated._

_“I went to see my brother.”_

_Varric frowned.  Hawke couldn’t see his face; she just knew that he would.  “Carver?”_

_The laugh that left Hawke was the very definition of self-pitying. “Only, one I’ve got.”_

_“Well that’s…ok, so that’s big.  Did he…what did he say?”  Varric was trying so hard to be neutral.  Bless him.  Varric had not been Carver’s biggest fan since…well, ever, but certainly not since he had joined the Templar Order.  Not many people got close enough to Varric to disappoint him, but when they did the man sure knew how to hold a grudge.  Hawke was different.  She forgave everyone.  For everything._

_“Oh the usual.  I’m a terrible person, and a disappointment as a sister.  He never wants to speak to me again.  I should be ashamed of myself, I should have done more, or maybe better.  I don’t know, it all sorts to blend together after a few years.”_

_Hawke’s monotone belied the ability of Carver’s words to still cut her. She should have long since given up the idea that he liked her, or would appreciate how hard she tried to do what was best for him.  But she never saw Carver without seeing how much he was hurting.  She would never give up on him._

_“That, son of a bitch-“ Varric started, trying to get up, presumably to run off to the Gallows and personally strangle the boy.  Hawke curled her arms around him, and he stopped, which was lucky, since Hawke didn’t think she could support the weight of her own body any more. He settled back down in to their position, and brought his hand from Hawke’s waist to her hair, brushing it behind her ear and cradling her head.  The ache in her skull was almost gone.  As long as he didn’t let go, she might be able to be a full person again.  Some day._

_“Seriously though, Princess, we were worried about you.”_

_Varric yawned and let his arm fall around her shoulders.  Hawke’s breath slowed on his chest, and after a few moments he was sure she had finally found some peace.  Taking in his current position, he was sure his body would regret falling asleep like this in the morning, but he could live with it.  What was an aching back next to knowing that Hawke was safe? His eyelids closed, and he had almost fallen back asleep when he heard her._

_“What did you call me?”_

* * *

 

            He had made up some kind of lie, she didn’t even really remember what. Hawke was half asleep, and too drained to truly focus on more than one thing at a time.  She had nodded, pretended to believe him, and he had fallen asleep.  But afterwards, when she was sure he was too far-gone to notice, she slid out from under his arm, and snuck out of the apartment.  Her headache returned, and the thudding in her head made the walk to Hightown near impossible when coupled with the dullness in her exhausted limbs. But she needed to get out, to breathe, because she couldn’t handle the truth of what had just happened.

            After nearly four years, Varric had given her a nickname.

            But he hadn’t just given it to her, had he?  It slipped out too easily, and he covered it up too readily. Varric had never shied away from explaining someone’s nickname to them before, not even with Fenris, and ‘Broody’ had tried to take a swing at him the first time he heard it. He was proud of them, and almost always used them instead of someone’s given name.  Hawke had been pestering her friend for years for one, and Varric had insisted that Hawke was in itself a nickname, since she had forbidden him from using her first name ever since he charmed it out of her mother soon after their first meeting.  But if he had one, and he was covering it up, that made it seem much more personal.  Almost…intimate. 

            Princess wasn’t exactly a gender neutral nickname after all.

            And this is what Hawke thought about in the middle of the night, in the quiet, in a country so far away from what she considered home.  It was why she left Kirkwall in the middle of the night, just like when she had crawled out her bedroom window. She needed to sort out her feelings: her hurt over her brother, who seemed to find fault in everything she did; her ever present grief over her father, and her sister, and now her poor, innocent, too trusting mother.  And now this.  Because, hypothetically, if she wasn’t over reacting which was entirely possible, Varric’s feelings towards her were more than platonic.  And if Varric’s feelings towards her were, hypothetically, more than platonic, why had she shut down her own attraction to him years ago? And more importantly, did she want to reopen them? 

            What they had worked.  It was comfortable, it was fun, it was easy, and it was reliable. She had never had a romantic relationship that could be described as any one of those things. Varric was the only person who had never pushed her, never asked anything of her, and never made her feel like she wasn’t enough.  Why would she give that up?

            _But what if it’s better_ , she would think to herself.  What if being honest about their feelings only made him an even greater part of her life? She couldn’t see how an excess of Varric could ever be a bad thing.  Most of the more mundane aspects of her day could be vastly improved with the presence of her best friend.  She imagined what it might be like to go through her mail while she laid on the couch with him, her body between his legs and her head on his chest, while receiving helpful commentary about exactly what sized dragon bone Hubert could stick where after getting more bad news from the Bone Pit. She pictured Varric stroking her hair and spinning stories about the latest drama in the Merchant’s Guild on nights when the nightmares made it hard to sleep.  She thought about what it must be like to then wake up next to Varric, to open your eyes and see his whiskey colored ones an inch away from you, and how she would smile as he took her in his arms and kissed her in a way started playful and quickly became much, much more.

            And it was usually about at that point that Hawke’s rational brain stopped working and her hormones took over, which was incredibly inconvenient for someone trying to make the biggest decision of their life.  Not to mention someone who was more often than not just a few short feet away from her sleeping friends who had no business know what kind of thoughts were going through her mind at two in the morning.

            But unfortunately for her, and her pride, it hadn’t been her lusty, hormonal brain that had kissed Varric last night.  It was a conscious choice that she had weighed the pros and cons of over a dozen times, and had finally decided to make after examining all the evidence.  And Maker did she regret it.

            Not that the kiss hadn’t been nice, lovely even.  She couldn’t have asked for a more romantic setting, complete with flowers, and moonlight, and Andraste preserve her even a giant glittering ball gown.  _Fit for a Princess_ , she reminded herself bitterly, remembering she had accidentally used the word to describe her sister while having an emotional break down.  That part hadn’t been particularly romantic.  Mostly just pathetic.

            But he didn’t say anything.  Not that Hawke could blame him; she had been so awkward around him since accepting the fact that she had a crush on him she was surprised he was still willing to talk to her at all.  In the weeks that passed after her return from Orlais she had been so concerned about how to act in front of Varric that she had all but completely ignored him, often choosing to avoid places she knew he would be rather than take a chance and actually speak to him.  Her mother would have scolded her for being such a coward, particularly when a man was involved.

            But he didn’t say anything.  She felt like she had been incredibly obvious with her intentions (sticking your tongue down a man’s throat will do that) and she had even given him an out afterwards.  But he just stared at her like she had lost her mind, and maybe he was right. So he gave her a nickname, so what? Could she even really be sure it was a nickname?  Maybe she heard him wrong, or maybe it really did mean nothing.  Or maybe it meant something, and he had changed his mind. Maybe girls crying over their dead families was just his thing.

            Whatever the reality was, she would most likely have to wait and find out. But, she hated waiting, so when Varric didn’t appear again in the ballroom, Hawke stole a very expensive looking bottle of scotch from the Viscount’s Estate, snuck out through the garden, and went home to drink herself to sleep.  It seemed to work well enough for Fenris, and who was she to judge a man’s lifestyle without trying it on for size?  She was, if nothing else, a very open minded misanthrope.

            It was for this reason, when she woke up in the morning, unreasonably early for someone who had made very promising headway in to bottle of liquor the night before, and she smelled bacon and eggs cooking downstairs, that she very seriously considered writing to Orzammar to nominate Bodahn for Paragon status. She wasn’t sure if “Being a Perfect Person with a Beautiful, Beautiful Soul” was a category, or if Paragons came in categories, but she was sure King Harrowmont would see her side of the argument.  Reluctantly, she stumbled out of bed, and threw on her robe, quickly checking her face in the mirror to make sure that her face didn’t look as disastrous as she felt. Confident that her face was at least passable for a noble lady who most certainly was not suffering from a tremendous hangover, she carefully made her way downstairs.

            When she smelled hot coffee in the kitchen, she called out, to no one in particular, “That’s it, I’m putting the letter in the mail today!” 

            “That’s not how it works, Princess, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” 

            The scream that emitted from Hawke’s mouth was not entirely human, and she unsuccessfully tried to stifle it with her hand as Varric walked out of her kitchen carrying a breakfast tray and looking very pleased with himself. He laughed, and put it down in front of her.  Exactly how passable had her face looked in the mirror? 

            “What are you doing here?” She asked, her hand still mostly covering her mouth. 

            He raised an eyebrow, as if he was confused by the question. “I made breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the tray.  Hawke narrowed his eyes at him.  Smart ass.

            “How did you get in?” 

            “I have a key.”  He countered matter of factly, sitting down in the armchair across from her.

            “Oh,” she said, sitting down, “Right.”  She had given him a key the day she moved in.  He almost never used it, preferring to knock first, claiming that he wanted to respect her privacy.  However, she had also long since accepted that coming home to Varric reading in her study, or playing some invented game with Sandal was her new normal.  Not that normal had much meaning for them lately.

            She took a bite of toast, and looked across at Varric.  He was watching her with interest, his fingers steepled in a way that usually indicated he was concocting some sort of plan. She swallowed, slightly uneasy about the nature of that plan. 

            “So,” she continued, taking a sip of coffee and sizing her best friend up, “any interesting plans for the day?”  Was he just trying to humiliate her at this point?

            “Oh just the one,” Varric said casually, sinking in to his chair and smiling. Hawke caught a sparkle in his eye that piqued her interest.

            “Indeed? And what might that be?” 

            “I think we should go on a date.”  Hawke choked mid sip on her coffee, and fought to keep it down as she recovered from that sentence.

            “Excuse me?” she said, bringing a napkin to her mouth to help her maintain whatever dignity she had left.  And possibly also hide a quiet smile.  Years of playing Wicked Grace with Varric had taught her to never show her cards until she was sure her opponent wasn’t bluffing.

            “A date.  You’re most likely familiar with the concept.  Two people who like each other put on nice clothes and spend time together in a way that might result in a continued examination of their romantic involvement. You could find another dress. I could wear really anything because I’m just that naturally handsome.”

            “Asshole,” she chuckled, throwing a piece of the toast at him.  He swatted it out of the way, laughing. _Two people that like each other._

            “Does my proposal sound agreeable to you?”

            Hawke pretended to mull it over in an overly dramatic fashion, swirling her coffee mug like a glass of fine wine.  “I could be amenable to those terms, yes.” She finally said.

            “Good. Now let me have a piece of your bacon.”  He said reaching out to her plate, as she batted his hand away 

            “Sod off!  Get your own!”

            “Hawke, I literally made this for you five seconds ago.”

            “And you made the poor decision to let all of it make its way to me. How very sad for you.”

            The two fell back so quickly in to bickering and joking with each other, that it was almost as if no time passed at all.  The past months of hurt feelings faded away and a familiar friendship took its place, with a hint of something more on the horizon. And when Hawke finally walked Varric to the door, promising to meet him at The Hanged Man that night, all she could think was that this feeling was anything, anything, but quiet.


	3. A Series of Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much delay, both on my end and speaking on behalf of our protagonists, here is Chapter 3: In which two nerds go on a date, and we learn a little bit about their past together.

If he was ever given cause to tell the story of how they met, Varric was fairly certain he would lie.  A truly epic story needs an equally epic beginning, something that foreshadows the events to follow and hints at the sizable forces in play.  When he crafted the Tale of the Champion, currently a placeholder title while he thought of something better, he would need to introduce each hero, himself included, in a way that grabbed the reader’s attention.  That’s what storytellers do.

 

            But real life rarely played out with enough dramatic tension for Varric’s liking.  In all honesty, his introduction to Hawke had been quite ordinary.  He had been in Hightown, securing resources alongside his brother for the then mostly hypothetical excursion in to the Deep Roads. The trip was Bartrand’s idea, and Varric played his role as the dutiful little brother quite well. He charmed contacts when necessary, and flexed muscle when convenient.  At all other times, he stayed in the back, stayed quiet, and stayed excruciatingly bored.  On that particular day he had already seen Bartrand barge through a half dozen would be tagalongs with as much social grace as a drunken druffalo.  His brother was clearly out of his depth, but was covering up any hint of anxiety with anger and rudeness.  So everything was going according to schedule.

            Varric was pretending to look over a contract when a lull in the shouting a few yards away cued him in to the fact that Bartrand had chased away his seventh inquiry of the day.  Varric shook his head in frustration.  Bartrand’s insistence on turning down help was going to ensure that this crazy idea of his failed before it began.

            He looked over at the duo of humans left deflated in his brother’s wake. They were dressed fairly modestly in somewhat drab cotton clothing, most likely more Ferelden refugees looking for a break.  They were both exceptionally tall, even for humans, with the dark haired boy just barely eking out the woman next to him.  Varric briefly wondered whether it was difficult to see where your feet were going when your face was so high up in the air, but he was almost immediately distracted as the pair moved within his earshot. 

            “What are we supposed to do now?” the boy scowled, looking at his companion for answers.

            The girl smiled, and pulled her shoulder length, golden hair in to a small ponytail.  Varric was struck by the delicate nature of her hands; they seemed so out of place when compared to the worn elbows of her tunic and dirt on her pant leg.  She walked with notable grace as well, as if she were more naturally suited to the grounds of the Vicount’s Estate than to the Lowtown slum she most certainly lived in.  So much more like a princess than a refugee.

            “We’ll just have to keep trying.  Maybe Gamlen knows someone who can help.  Or maybe Atheneril-“

            “Yeah, I trust Atheneril about as far as I can throw her.  I don’t want to end up even more indebted to her than we already are.”

            _Atheneril._   Varric raised an eyebrow at the name, and took a closer look at the woman walking through the square.  He had heard through a few of his contacts that a brother and sister in the elf’s smuggling ring had been looking for their next job in the city since their extremely suspect and somewhat exploitative contract was coming to end. Normally he wouldn’t have taken notice, but this was not the first time the girl’s name had crossed his desk.  It had happened a handful of times over the past year, and each time it accompanied a fairly impressive account of her intelligence, professionalism, and skill.  These were all attributes that Varric could use, and he had made a mental note to seek out this Hawke person when he had a chance.  Now it seemed as if the universe had saved him the walk.

            “Pardon me,” he said, rolling up his parchment and moving to block the path of the pair as they walked by. 

            “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

           

            A few hours later, the three of them were getting to know each other at The Hanged Man over a few pints of ale.  Carver, as he now knew the young man to be called, proved to be a very quiet drunk.  This suited Varric fine as he and Hawke, still no first name, were getting along famously. His new business partner was apparently every bit as witty and delightful as had been reported. He made another mental note to buy Kae a drink the next time he saw her for tipping him off about the woman who was making life so very difficult for the Coterie.

            “Ok my turn,” Hawke slurred slightly, picking up her flagon and downing the last of it.  Varric automatically motioned for another round.  “Where’dyou get the crossbow?”

            “Bianca?” Varric asked, petting the bow on his shoulder, “Won her in a game of Wicked Grace against the one, the only, Paragon Branka.  She had me down to my small clothes with only a pair of serpents to my name, but I noticed she had a tell.  Every time she got a bad card, she would crack the knuckles on her left hand.  After that it was only a matter of time.”

            A bar maid refilled Hawke’s mug, and she went to dig through her coin purse before Varric put his hand out and insisted that all of her drinks go on his tab.

            “I’m sure you’ll be able to pay me back twice over when we get back from the Deep Roads.”  Carver mumbled slightly next to him.  On closer inspection, it was possible he was asleep.  Hawke laughed as her brother rolled his head in to his hand, and not for the first time that night Varric was struck with how melodic it was.

            “Wait, but how did you meet a Paragon?  Don’t you have to be in Orzammar to be a Paragon?  I thought you’d lived in Kirkwall your whole life. Who’s Branka?”

            “Ah ah,” Varric cut her off, “That’s an awful lot of questions and I believe it’s my turn.” 

Hawke smirked and put her chin in her hand.  He caught himself looking at the easy way her lips curled in to a smile, and the color of her lips.  In the wake of the Blight, and the many tales of the Hero of Ferelden, dark make up had become the most recent fad among young Marcher girls as they tried to emulate the elven mage they had never seen.  Nearly every woman Hawke’s age had taken to painting their lips various shades of purple, blue, or deep red, but Hawke’s lips remained fresh and pink, and her green-blue eyes were unlined by kohl or color of any kind.  Something about the nakedness of her face was even more alluring than the fantasy concocted by others.

            Varric coughed and looked down at his drink, wondering if he had maybe had one too many. 

“At any rate…let me see…ok, here’s one.  A few of my associates have mentioned your…let’s say ‘efficiency at dispatching undesirable persons.’” Hawke snorted, and Varric instinctively smiled in response, “However, no one has mentioned exactly how you accomplish this.  It seems like quite the mystery.”

“Well that’s because in those cases I only work with Carver,” jerking her head towards her brother, who had begun softly snoring, “so no one sees the actual…dispatching.”

“How convenient.” Varric noted, and Hawke crossed her arms.

“I’ve heard there’s very little clean up, so I’m assuming you’re not a dagger girl, but you don’t carry a sword like your brother.  Although that could just be because you’re not under the same delusion that you’re going to have to face off against a dozen thugs between here and your house. Where do you live, anyway?”

“Is that your question?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Varric countered, suddenly suspicious of how warm the tavern had gotten, “My question is simply, how do you do it?”

Hawke bit her lip, and looked at her brother, as if looking for permission that she obviously wasn’t going to get.  To Varric’s surprise, she then leaned in across the table, closing off the view of other patrons behind the massive wall of muscle that was Carver.  Varric did the same and met her, so that their faces were mere inches from each other.  An uneven leg caused the table to rock slightly at the shift in their weight, and their noses almost collided.

Hawke brought her hands to the tabletop and cupped them tightly, as if holding an invisible and delicate bird. Varric watched as a small flame grew in her hand, licking her fingertips and threatening to expose itself, and her, to the outside world. 

Just then a scantily clad Rivaini woman bumped in to their table, causing Hawke to nervously extinguish the fire, which left a thin trail of smoke as the only evidence of the crime she had just committed.  The woman winked over her shoulder and made her way to the bar without a word.

“Ah.”  Varric said, unsure of what else he could say.

“Obviously not primarily that. My cousin apparently got the bulk of the elemental talent in the family.”  She wiped her hands on her side as if it could erase the past minute, “My methods are usually more…forceful.”  A Force Mage.  Excellent.

“Your cousin?” Varric began, but Hawke had already launched in to her next question.  Rules were rules after all.

“Is Bartrand your only sibling, and if so, what can you tell me about him?  Other than the fact that he seems like an asshole.” Hawke took a few more sips of her beer.  “Wait, are compound questions against the rules?  Fuck it, this was my idea and I say it’s fine.”

“Fair enough,” Varric said, carefully prying Carver’s mug from his grip and pouring its contents in to his own, “Yes, Bartrand is my only brother, and yes, he is an asshole.” He proceeded to talk to her at some length about him, but couldn’t help wondering what prompted the question. He hadn’t asked if Hawke had other siblings.  If she did, he had never heard about them.

“Ok, next question.” Varric squinted at her, and pointed his finger in mock accusation. She laughed loudly again, tilting her mug back.  “What’s your first name?”

“And with that,” she said, finishing her drink and pushing her chair back, “I must take my leave. Long day tomorrow and all that.” She shook Carver gently and slung his arm over her broad shoulders as he groggily stumbled to his feet.

“You’re not going to answer my question?”

“It appears not. Besides, I’m sure Hawke will work well enough for our purposes,” She extended the hand not supporting her brother.  “Master Tethras?”

He smiled and shook her hand, “Mistress Hawke.”

He left her to go upstairs and puzzle over the turn his day had taken.  If only he had lingered a few moments longer he may have heard the exchange between two siblings as Hawke tried to steady Carver in the direction of the door.

“I would make fun of you for passing out, but you drank about twice as much as me.  I’m surprised my shoes aren’t covered in your sick.”  
            “Well you would have been in a hurry to get drunk too, if your sister was shamelessly flirting with your new employer a foot away from your face.”

“I wasn’t-I’m not…he’s our partner!”

* * *

 

Four years later, Varric was planted at the same, small table.  The setting of this story hadn’t changed much; the table leg was still uneven, and caused the table to wobble as Varric jiggled his leg nervously.  Rivaini, who had long since admitted to bumping in to Hawke that night in an attempt to flirt with her, was no longer at her post at the bar, but many of the same faces were.  The same staff poured the same flat ale in to dingy glasses that possibly hadn’t been washed in all this time.  Everyone and everything around Varric was playing the same part they had been, and would likely continue to do for years to come.

Varric was the only thing that was different; or supposedly Hawke would be too, if she ever showed up. Varric told himself not to worry, that Hawke was routinely late, but that didn’t stop his knee from bouncing up and down with such a severity that his foot threatened to punch a hole in the floor.  He took another gulp of his ale and grimaced at the taste.  Hawke would be here.

A few minutes later, to the relief of Varric’s pride, Hawke came through the door.  Varric made to get up, but stopped as Hawke was almost immediately greeted by a mutual acquaintance and trapped in a conversation. True to her nature, Hawke put on a warm smile, and remained genial, although her eyes kept darting around the bar presumably looking for him.   When her eyes caught his her smile relaxed and she shot him a wink that made his heart leap in to his throat. 

Never let it be said that Hawke couldn’t dress for the occasion.  Ever since she had secured her title and the status that came along side it, Hawke had for the first time in her life allowed herself to indulge in her appearance.  While she never paid heed to whichever trend was sweeping the city, she began experimenting with make up in small ways.  Her previously dull and limp hair had taken on new life and shine under Isabella’s careful tutelage, and was often wound back to expose her neck and jawline. The worn and patched clothes of her past were replaced with a series of silks and jewels in a variety of indulgent styles and colors that she never would have had access to in her old life. While she could never quite shake her preference for function, she was Ferelden after all; in recent years it had become clear that Hawke had discovered she had a figure as well. Between the seemingly endless variety of corsets, belts, boots, and skirts that Hawke had added to her collection, and a newfound confidence that belied her soft spoken and shy nature, Hawke had quite simply transformed in to a woman that demanded attention.

Even so, Hawke must have been determined to outshine any previous image Varric had of her tonight.   Her body was draped in a pale pink dress of weightless fabric that crossed her bust and ribs in a winding pattern that begged to be mapped out by your fingertips.  The dress simply floated away at her hips and trailed down to just above her knee, where they were met by heather grey leggings and tightly laced, pale leather boots.  A matching leather corset vest snapped with a single dawnstone clasp, and created a neckline that forced Varric to consciously maintain eye contact.

Hawke managed to graciously break free of the conversation and make her way to Varric, who felt his nerves increase tenfold has she brushed the few tendrils of wavy hair that had escaped her low bun away from her face as she flashed him another smile.

            “I’m sorry about that,” She said, taking a seat and crossing her hands in her lap, “He means well, he just-“ Hawke stopped and her eyes widened, as if in abject horror. 

“Oh Maker, no.” 

            Varric turned to look behind him to see what was the matter, but not seeing anything unusual he looked back at his friend in confusion.  “Is everything-?”

            “The shoes!”

            She brought a hand to her face as a blush creeped up her neck. Varric was completely lost, as she began furiously tugging at the laces of her boots.

            “Oh no no no no.” She muttered, and her brow furrowed in frustration as the knots proved difficult to undo in her panicked state.

            “Hawke,” he said, leaning over slightly to watch her, “What in the world are you doing?”

            “I forgot, I’m sorry.  It’s just-“ She gave up, and slumped back in her chair, “I like wearing these boots on dates.  They’re a nice color, and they make my legs look good, and I just forgot…” The blush worked its way up her face as Varric tried to work out what she was talking about. He followed her mournful look to the bottom of the shoe, and suddenly he realized what all the fuss was about. And he could not stop laughing.

            “It’s not funny!  I’m already so…I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” 

            Hawke had always been incredibly tall; it was one of the first things you had to notice about her.  At 6’1”, the difference between the two of them was already comical from an outside perspective, and now Hawke was fretting over the fact that her choice of footwear had added at least another three inches to the farce. A fact that she had apparently not considered until this exact moment.  Varric was near hysterical.

            “I could change them.  I’m almost sure I left a pair in your room.  Although I don’t know if those are much better…”

            Varric managed to fight back his laughter long enough to wave her off, “Honestly Hawke, it’s not that big a deal.  It doesn’t bother me.  And you’re right.” He chuckled again and took a drink.   “They make your legs look fantastic.”

            “I said good,” she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to contain an embarrassed smile. The blush had found its way to the tips of her ears.

            “And I corrected you.”  Varric said simply, returning her grin.  Before they could continue, Norah passed them with a clear look of judgment on her face.  He suddenly realized how exposed they were.

            “Do you want to get some air?” he asked, and immediately Hawke exhaled a relieved _Maker yes_ and they discretely made their way out in to the streets of Lowtown.

* * *

 

            The night air was warm and inviting, and seemed to lend an instant sense of calm to the occasion.  They rounded a corner and Varric brought his gaze back to the woman next to him. It had been so long since he had been in this situation, if indeed there had ever been a situation quite like this.  What did people do now? He was fairly sure it involved holding hands.  He glanced at Hawke’s arms, which were currently crossed in front of her.  Didn’t seem likely.

            “We’re not far from Gamlen’s” Hawke noted, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

            “Thinking of making a social call?”

            “Maker no!  I was just thinking…” She trailed off at first, but seemed to find her words and started again, “Do you remember the first time you met my family?”

            Varric chuckled.  A few weeks after meeting Hawke, she had walked in to The Hanged Man and informed him that he was having dinner at her house that night.  When he had tried to get out of it, Hawke clarified that her mother wasn’t requesting, she was demanding.  One didn’t say no to Hawke’s mother.

            “Dinner with the infamous Leandra.  And I didn’t have a thing to wear.”

            “Andraste, that seems like ages ago.” Hawke said,  “Carver was in a foul mood because his guard application had been rejected for a third time, and Gamlen was…well, Gamlen. But Mother was insistent that everybody put on their polite faces so that she could finally put a face to the name that had become a constant in her childrens’ conversations. She wanted to make sure that you were going to be a good influence.”

            “Well that didn’t exactly work,” Varric said, “I mean I try, I really do, but you seem to be very attached to danger.  I don’t think anything less than a blunt instrument to your head could influence you.  And believe me, we’ve discussed it.”

            “Decided it wasn’t worth the clean up?” Hawke laughed as Varric shrugged in response.

            “I remember thinking it was a perfectly sane thing for a mother to want, until I got there.  From the second she opened the door I have never felt more scrutinized, like she was completely set on hating me.  It’s the strangest thing looking back on it, because after that your mother and I always got along so well.”  
            “Oh she was absolutely charmed by you,” Hawke said, bumping her hip against him, “She was always asking about you, and if you were eating enough, and when you were coming over again.”

            “Bless that woman.  She always did have impeccable tastes.  I just hate to think what slander the two of you were spreading in that house to make her so suspicious of me to begin with.”

            “Oh Carver told her that I was in love with you.”  Hawke said it so calmly that it almost escaped Varric’s notice.  It took a few seconds for the information to reach him, at which point he stopped in his tracks.

            “He did what?”

            Hawke stopped a few paces ahead, and rounded on her heels to face him, “He wouldn’t shut up about it.  That was what we talked about more than the expedition in those early days. He insisted that I had a crush on you and I kept insisting that he was a moron.  But my mother had never heard of me liking a boy before so she got it in to her head that you were her future son in law, and she needed to make sure you were good enough for me.  She always had a very tiresome obsession with arranging my marriage.”

            “Wow…well I guess…did you?”

            Hawke smiled, and stretched out her hand to him.  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

            Varric took her hand, and their fingers laced together.  When they began walking again, they were closer than they had been before.  The fabric of her dress flickered against his knuckles.

            “So I suppose I passed then?”

            Hawke laughed, and squeezed his hand, “Yes, you passed.  Mother spent the next few years trying to trick you into proposing to me.  Although she did that with most men with a pulse that walked in to her house. But she did genuinely love you.”

 

            The pair continued past Hawke’s uncle’s shack in to the nearest hex. The sight of the run down merchant stalls in disuse triggered a memory of when they had first introduced Merrill to the city.  It was the morning after they came down from Sundermount, and Varric had insisted they give their new friend a tour of the world outside of the Alienage. They barely intercepted a merchant threatening to have Merrill arrested because she hadn’t paid for the fruit she took. Varric talked the man down, while Hawke explained the concept of money, even though Varric paid for all of her groceries that day, and for several weeks afterward.

            “I think that was the first time that I realized how genuinely kind you were.”  Hawke mused, leading Varric to the scene of Merrill’s attempted apple thievery.

            “How dare you.  I am a shameless cad.  An unabashed rogue.”

            Hawke nodded, “Yes, of course.  A terrible villain who scheduled regular lunches with a scared and lonely elven girl just to make sure that she had a reason to leave her house. And who paid a fool’s ransom to ensure she got home from those dates without getting mugged.”

            “Daisy’s a big girl.  She can look out for herself.”

            “Now that she can make it a few weeks at a time without getting lost.”

 

            They continued their tour towards Hightown, but stopped at Varric’s insistence a few alleys before the Blooming Rose.

            “And this was the first place I ever saw the mighty Hawke in action,” He spread his arms wide as if presenting an exhibit.  Hawke rolled her eyes.  “Seriously, they should hang a plaque here.  ‘Here, in the year 9:31 Dragon, the Champion of Kirkwall kicked the asses of no less than six Coterie thugs with the assistance of what we totally believe is a spear, no seriously it’s a spear, why are you looking at us like that?’”

            “Might be a bit much to fit on a plaque.  Maybe, ‘Here would have laid the busted remains of a Ferelden refugee, who found herself in way over her head, had she not been saved by a handsome dwarf and his improbable crossbow.’”

            “Hm, it still seems long.  How about ‘Carver Hawke once scowled here.’”

            “We’d have to hang them everywhere.”

            “True, it might get a bit tacky.”

            “We could try, ‘Anders once bravely resisted saying ‘I told you so’ in this alley’”

            “Again, we’d have to print quite a few of those.”

            The two agreed that they would have to leave the monument as it was for the time being, barring a suitable epitaph, and climbed the steps in to Hightown.

 

* * *

 

            There were so many memories triggered by standing outside of the Hawke estate. The best moments in both of their lives, absolutely.  Tournaments of Wicked Grace.  Stories by the firelight.  Countless late nights ending in the group falling asleep on the floor of the study in a pile of bodies.  But even more recently some of their darkest days.  Leandra’s death.  Hawke’s recovery from the duel with the Arishok.  And empty home with no clue as to his friend’s disappearance.

 

            But after reflecting on their first meeting earlier in the night, and after thinking about his friendship with Leandra a little more than he had wanted to as of late, Varric could only focus one memory.  The first time he had made her angry.

 

            _“What did you say?”_

_“I said, have a nice day, Serafina.”  Varric was pouring over paint swatches, trying to pick a color for the hallway.  To be honest, he could barely tell the difference, and wasn’t sure he would have an opinion if he could.  But renovating the Amell mansion after its recent acquisition had been taking such an emotional strain on both Hawke and her mother that Varric had insisted they give him some of the work to do.  It wasn’t as if Carver was going to be any help._

_He was so engrossed in deciphering the difference between Cream and Eggshell, that he didn’t see Hawke leave the doorway and come back towards him. Without warning she violently swept the papers to the ground and grabbed the collar of Varric’s shirt, forcing him to stare up at her in shock._

_“How?” Hawke was visibly shaking, and Varric couldn’t tell if the tears welling up in her eyes were due to sadness or fury. “Who?”_

_“Your mother.  Just yesterday. We got to talking, and she was surprised that I didn’t already know.  She just assumed-“_

_“Never. Again.”  Hawke let him go and stormed out the front door, letting it slam in her wake.  Varric was stunned._

_Days later she apologized, claiming to be over worked and over stressed with the house.  She said that her actions were appalling and of course, Varric was free to call her anything he liked.  She was outwardly back to her normal, happy self._

_But by that point Varric had long since tracked down Carver, and had been crafting an apology of his own.  He hadn’t known that there had only been one person who ever called Hawke by her first name, although he usually shortened it to Fi.  He hadn’t known that no one had used her name since her father died._

_Varric ultimately decided to keep his mouth shut.  But he never used her name again.  Just as well.  Too clunky._

He decided not to bring it up again here.  Although he did hold her hand a little tighter, thinking that maybe as long as he didn’t let go he could stop her from ever being hurt again. Even by him.

* * *

 

            They continued along in this fashion, pointing out more and more areas of significance as they went, some of which (The first time they got Sebastian drunk, the first time they had seen Aveline in a dress) decidedly sillier than others (There was a moment of silence as they passed Bartrand’s Estate). By the time they got to the square, the two were exhausted, but thoroughly enjoying themselves. They sat down on the stairs to the Chantry, and Hawke stretched out her legs before curling her body up and resting her head on Varric’s shoulder. 

Varric could not help but be reminded of the last time they had sat like this, and his stomach did another back flip.  He ran his thumb over Hawke’s knuckles as their hands lay in his lap, silently promising himself that he wouldn’t ruin this moment in the same way.  He’d most likely find a new, novel way to ruin it.

 

            “Do you remember the first time we met?”

            Varric shifted his gaze to look in to the eyes of woman next to him. She stared up at him through thick, darkened lashes, and he felt himself momentarily get lost in her gaze. He disentangled himself from her arm, momentarily, to pull her closer and snake his arm around her waist. She pressed herself in to him as if the night was significantly colder than it was.

            “Funnily enough, I was thinking about that just before you arrived tonight.”

            “The first first in a series of firsts.”

            “I wish it had been more exciting.  Maybe I could have rescued you from an attempted robbery, punched out the ne’r do well, and carried you off in to the sunset. That’s what would have happened in a romance serial.”

            “I think you left quite the impression as it is.  Not as dashing an entrance, to be sure, but…still striking.”

            “Hmm,” Varric agreed, enclosing her hands in his, keeping her wrapped in his arms.  Striking would be the word for it.  He felt as if he was still finding her striking, all these years later.  Her clever words, and her kind heart, and her beautiful smile.  Maker, she was so beautiful.

            “Is that what kind of story this is?” She asked, lifting her head slightly to bring him to eye level.  “A romance serial?”

            Varric smirked, “What, this?  This, Princess, is a classic adventure.”  He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “With just enough romance laced in that it catches the reader off guard in the best possible way.”

            Everything was quiet for a few seconds, with just the sound of their own breath adding color to the night sky.  Hawke’s eyes, half lidded, focused on Varric’s mouth, and she moved, almost imperceptivity, as if she wanted to close the distance.  But when she stopped herself, Varric decided that he didn’t want Hawke to get the drop on him two days in a row.  That would just be embarrassing.

            He slowly brought his hand to her hair, tucking one of the troublesome strands behind her ear for her, and letting his hand linger so his fingers trailed along her neck and jawbone.  Carefully, he guided her to him, and as her eyes finally slid closed, their mouths met in a kiss that began so much more gently than its predecessor.

            Varric kissed her the way that he wanted to, the way that he had dreamed of. He pressed her lips cautiously at first, softly and silently begging for permission to deepen it. His answer came in the form of Hawke’s trembling hands, one in his hair and one on his side, both steadying themselves by twisting in to fists against him.  He inhaled deeply at the sensation of her grip, and pulled her face closer, developing a hunger that he hadn’t previously allowed himself to cultivate.

            When it came to kissing the woman you loved, the art of exploration was almost better than the thrill of discovery.  He learned about her passion as he bruised her soft lips with longing.  He caught her lower lip in his teeth and learned the exact pitch of the moan he would earn as he dragged away.  He learned that the smell that he found so intoxicating was strongest right behind her ear as his mouth wandered across her jaw line and down her neck. 

He knew he should restrain himself but it became less and less clear why as Hawke’s breath shuddered in his ear.  She gasped when he bit the muscle that met her shoulder, and she inadvertently jerked her body in to his, pressing her breast to him in the same way she had last night. Andraste’s sake, was that only last night?

            “Varric,” she breathed, her fingers splaying out through his hair. He groaned against the nape of her neck, trailing his open mouth up her neck as his free hand came to her side to explore the wrapped texture of her bodice.  Her chest rose and fell against him, and she laughed breathily when he kissed that spot behind her ear.

            “Varric,” she tried again, swallowing as he pulled away just enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her earlobe, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your, ah, enthusiasm,” she punctuated her last word with a sly grin as she tilted her head to kiss just under his jaw.  “But it’s just possible,” she continued to trail kisses along the side of his face, “and I could be wrong about this,” she drew him in to a torturously long kiss, which nearly ripped the breath from Varric’s lungs. She severed their connection, and murmured against his lips, “That we shouldn’t have sex on the front steps of the Chantry.”

            Varric chuckled and took her chin in his hand, pulling her in for another lingering kiss, “That’s a very strong opinion.”  Her tongue slid against his almost painfully slowly, drawing out the kiss for excruciating minutes.  “But I suppose you’re probably right.”

When they finally parted, he pressed his forehead to hers and took a long breath to clear his mind as a bead of sweat trailed down the back of his neck.  He let it out in a sigh that turned in to a laugh shared by both of them.  Hawke was going to be wonderful problem.

 

“C’mon,” she said, pulling herself back to her feet and offering Varric her hand, “Let’s get you home.” He took her hand and hoisted himself up, trying to hide his disappointment in the end to a very promising evening.  She giggled and bent down to kiss him one last time.

“If you’re lucky, maybe we’ll do some sightseeing along the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. The next chapter will be almost entirely gratuitous smut, so if that is not your thing, feel free to skip it. I'm not intending to include anything too earth shattering plot wise.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone is at all interested, I recently created an 8tracks.com account, where I have playlists up for each of my Dragon Age trio already. Serafina's mix is not completely Varric centric, but there are certainly elements there. Feel free to have a listen (same username).


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